


Blood, Sugar, Sex, Magic

by sephoraphoenix



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 00:44:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5437124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sephoraphoenix/pseuds/sephoraphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a new playing field for Carrie and Quinn. Post- Berlin. Post- Quinn's latest (and hopefully LAST) near-death experience. Attempting to navigate their new 'out-in-the-open' feelings for each other whilst working together back at Langley, Carrie had felt pulled back into her old life, and Quinn is out of black ops, trying to figure out his place now.</p>
<p>**</p>
<p>Not sure how long this will play for, but I've had a NEED to write for them, for the last several weeks, so here we are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> My first Carrie/Quinn fic, it's been a looong time since I've dabbled. Interesting getting into the headspace of these two.

It had been eight weeks since everything changed.

Again.

It was early morning, Carrie was running. Oh the peace. Shoving the cobwebs away she felt her soaked skin, felt the gravelly rasps of her breathing, revelled in it. She fucking needed this. Kept her eyes steady on following the river as the rising sun slowly dipped away from the surface, heading towards her old familiar stomping ground once more.

Langley. 

Her heart sank even as it noisily struggled and fought in her chest, her body pumping blood like a clock running out of time. Another day at work, back in the bullring. Surrounded by these pompous assholes she was continually fighting against. And that lingering presence, the not quite answered questions. Carrie wondered what the fuck was coming next. After the complete and utter clusterfuck that her life had turned into in Berlin- (yeah, that'll fucking teach her not to try and have the quiet life, think for one second she could escape...) she was back in the shit storm of the CIA (long story). She was nervous. Nervous and attempting to navigate scarily real new ground. With a certain black ops/ CIA agent we all know. 

Peter Quinn. I mean, seriously, did she ever think she would be here? Did she honestly ever truly think that she would actually fall for him?! Hook, line and sinker?

Nope. 

There was always something, of course there was, she couldn't deny that. He was so much to her, meant so much, and he constantly fought her on everything. But had she ever stopped and analysed her feelings, assessed the situation, thought about what it would actually be like to be with him? Hell no. Not until that night anyway. He was QUINN. Quinn her annoying, cocky as fuck, intense, exasperating, colleague, friend, confidante.... and suddenly, the man she fucking couldn't bear to be without. And that's all she would let herself think/feel about him right now. That was damn well enough, anyway. 

She tilts her head, painstakingly forcing a smile to John on the gate as she walks through the familiar doors and one hundred security checks. They seemed to be getting tighter and tighter with the situation in the world right now, no bad thing, she thought. 

She keeps herself invisible as she weaves through the throng, the ever present sound of phones ringing, people calling, rushing, slurping coffee cups, fingers on keyboards typing, news channels flipping. It's like a goddamned bank. The place is so... neutral. So green and cream. Who the hell thought it was a good idea to put those colours together? It was so painfully neutral it was vulgar. She hasn't missed this. She's missed being in the field, yes, but not this. All these... pretenders. This Matrix-style atmosphere. Like she could walk through someone and they wouldn't even notice.This building with it's shiny tinted windows. She's off-track, her mind is spinning too fast. She's staring at things too long, erratic. She's starting to feel paranoid, singled out.

Fucking get a grip, she thinks. She's back. Bathroom. Get rid of the sweat. Look somewhat like a semi-attractive female.

Ok, here we are. She stares in the mirror for too long, willing herself to see something other than disdain and disgust in the reflection staring back at her. She can't. Her lip trembles, her eyes filled with regret, always the regret. 

One day.

Splashing icy cold water on her face feels so good- she throws it on a few more times. Pinches her cheeks. Brushes her hair. Deodorant and fresh clothes. That was enough. Fuck it. She had too much swirling around in her mind to give a shit right now. 

As the door swings back in her wake, rounding the corner of the hall on the third floor, she sees him. Fuck. He's got that ever-serious expression on his face. He looks a damn sight more presentable than her though, and he's only just recovered. Fucking hell, she wanted to win today. 

"Hey."

He rounds on her, gives her that look. 

"Carrie."

There's a pause. It's been like this ever since he returned to the land of the living and they both got back to DC. Neither of them know what the fuck to do, what to say, how to act. They've settled for just being around each other. All the time. She's his shadow. Funny how the tables turn huh, he thinks.

"Well come on, let's get this show on the road." She finally says with an ever so slight brusqueness, and a roll of her eyes, leading the way. If in doubt, back to business. Soldier on, Carrie. Don't be a foolish little girl now. Would they ever acknowledge this elephant in the room?

Quinn's face gives nothing away, he simply watches her back and follows. Ever the stealthy operative, ever the one hiding a tornado huh? When would the levy break?

 

**


	2. Achilles Heel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Just as she could actually tear her hair out in frustration, there he is again. Why’s he always there? Just creeps up on her without a sound, a lurker in the background. It’s so goddamn unnerving, and yet, always, so fucking annoyingly, a relief."

She fucking drove him crazy. As quiet and controlled as he was with her (most of the time), she absolutely fucking made his blood simmer and boil. Here she was, ordering him around, thinking she could, thinking she owned him. Thinking she owned everyone. He was thinking irrationally, but fuck if he thought things would change. In one unalterable way the world had shifted on its axis, but at the same time no, they really hadn’t.

Quinn shakes his head almost imperceptibly. His eyes flicker as he watches her storm around Saul’s office.

…“No Saul. What you don’t seem to understand is you have all so completely fucked up here. Maybe beyond repair. Did you think about that?! I can’t grasp how long this has been going on. What is the matter with you? I get you were fucking involved with her, but Jesus Christ. We’ve got damage control coming out of our ears now and I’ve only just come back into this shit!”

She's not thinking rationally, because this is unfair. Then Carrie’s suddenly not there, she’s looking around, her cogs turning. Quinn wishes he could read that intricate little mind of hers, see what the hell she’s seeing that no one else can. 

Saul turns on her. His countenance though that of a very weary old man, older than Quinn’s ever seen him, is full of rage, almost seeping from every single crack of him.

Here we go, he thinks, and almost shuts off. The effort of watching their battle is exhausting. He can’t do this anymore. Can’t be a part of this merry-go-round, accomplishing nothing. What the fuck is the point? He’s seeing things differently now. Life’s fucking messed up. Short. And he’s starting to realize, precious. Even his. 

…”Carrie for Christ sake stop. Just stop. Don’t you fucking think I know? It could have been a lot worse, and we need to focus on what we can fix. We’re back on home territory, we’ve got you back, and we’re taking it one step at a time.” Saul's exasperated, but trying to manage her. Sees it's HER that needs to be brought down.

She nods slowly, her shoulders release and her body slumps. Her lip trembles. Quinn really doesn’t know if she does want to be back and it bothers him. Something itches at the back of his consciousness, another reason she’s back here. Another reason she’s back in. But it’s foolish and he shakes it off. She interrupts his train of thought and jolts him back into the conversation.

“Quinn what do you think?” She demands, almost desperate. Her eyes change, she’s looking at him so intently but with a mask on, that he can tell. He sighs.

“I think, this isn’t getting us anywhere. What’s done is done. We’ll take the strategy we’ve always had, we’ll carry on. Let the fuckers believe what they want, they do anyway and we’ve got bigger fish to fry now after Berlin.”

“But the documents… Alison…” Carrie protests.

“It’s all just damage control, like you said. One step at a time,” he says firmly. Giving her just a little nod, he can’t stop staring. Vaguely notices Saul glancing between them, one after the other. 

**

Carrie is stomping back down the hall, a woman on a mission. For fuck sake, what is going on with him. She’s irked, and not sure why. But she knows she was hoping for something else in there, some support, someone to really bounce ideas off of, instead they’ve all just scattered and she’s left feeling extremely dissatisfied. There is no strategy. No plan of action. No “this is how we’re going to recover the CIA and sort our shit out”, it’s like they’ve all just given up. And Quinn. Where’s his drive? Where’s his singular motivation gone? Either he’s completely lost or he doesn’t know how to play the game anymore, either way, Berlin changed him. She thought Syria had. She thought she’d lost him then. Maybe he doesn’t want to be back here, maybe the siren call of the black ops world is already whispering to him, regardless of the fact they both know he can’t go back now. Perhaps it’s too soon. Eight weeks since it all happened. She’d stayed with him, neither of them really willing to admit how fucking emotional she’d been at nearly losing him. She’d waited. And waited. Just wanted to be there, with him. Watch him come back to life, watch the colour come back to his cheeks. Watch his snark come back, and those piercing sharp eyes stare at her once more. But something went wrong along the way. She lost her nerve. And now there was just this edge between them. All this shit unspoken. You could fucking cut the atmosphere with a knife. She didn’t know what to do with it. 

Just as she could actually tear her hair out in frustration, there he is again. Why’s he always there? Just creeps up on her without a sound, a lurker in the background. It’s so goddamn unnerving, and yet, always, so fucking annoyingly, a relief. 

She’s irritable today. Really feeling her mood swings. Better than manic, she thinks, but then maybe she was. Too late now. He's followed her, she's putting it on him. 

“What was that in there?”

“What do you mean?” His voice is so smooth, so deep, it’s like molten lava running down her skin her reaction to it. Fuck him. 

She puts her hands on her hips and narrows her eyes at him.

“Look, I know this is hard. Being back. Trying to navigate this. You think it’s easy for me?” She’s practically begging him for something, he doesn’t know what, but he can see it in her eyes, she’s desperate. He purses his lips, runs his tongue over them. Thinking how to approach this unbelievably beautiful mess of a woman. His fucking Achilles heel.

“I’m still adjusting Carrie. Thinking. I don’t know how I fit in here anymore, how I can-“ He pauses, unsure how to proceed, can’t find the words. “I can’t just jump back in with both hands. I’m trying.”

She lets out a long breath then and relents. What a bitch, splashes across her thoughts. What a fucking selfish bitch. She runs her hands through her hair and looks up at him, tries to make him see that she’s sorry. She can’t say it. She wants him to see it. 'See me', a tiny voice whispers deep down in the back of her mind. 

She reaches her hand up suddenly to touch his face. Oh fuck no, she didn’t mean to- the memories flood back like a head rush and her heart is suddenly beating too hard for her chest. He freezes. She can see the question and answer written all over his face. Too late. He grabs her, holds her in place, slides his other arm round her waist, and crushes her to him. They don’t move. All she can feel is his warmth, his thick, firm body and it drives her wild. She's feeling static, unable to control herself. The air is so thick with emotion she feels like she could drown. Why is this so fucking difficult for her? For them? She tries not to think, she can’t think. Fuck, this is Quinn, it dawns on her again, every time, still doesn’t know how they suddenly became… this. 

She pulls away, smiles her soul crushing smile, not waiting to see his reaction, CAN'T see his reaction, and quickly walks away. She’s still not ready. 

The goddamn elephant in the room is still waiting for her to sort her shit out with this man.

**


	3. A Change in the Status Quo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'She doesn’t have to look out the window to know he’s there, she just does. Always seems to know when he’s watching her now. Like some weird fucking sixth sense. Must have been when he kidnapped her, she thinks almost nostalgically. She rolls her eyes as she sees him standing, leaning up against his car. Hands casually slid in his pockets, his hair fucking perfect, could be just-sexed, could be just out the shower, could be ‘I’ve been fighting in a war zone covered in blood all day’, it’s just always so fucking perfect tousled. He’s almost smirking it seems, but eyes dark, so not really giving anything away.'

She’s driving. A relief to get home and breathe out after a day of being so unsure of herself yet projecting this image of a woman who’s in control. She’s free to think and isn’t all that happy about what’s plastered all over her thoughts.   
She can’t stop thinking about him. It didn’t used to be like this. She could compartmentalize. Peter Quinn was her… something. He’d been a friend, someone she could trust beyond all measure, an ‘almost’ everything for a brief window in time, but he’d never gotten under her skin so much. Hell, after he’d left more than two years ago it’s like it hasn’t been a day he’s been gone. And this whole scenario with him now is driving her crazy. But flickers of uncertainty are also entering her subconscious. How much it matters to her to get back to what she knows, what she can do, regain control at work, make those fucking misogynistic men trust her and fall at her feet again. Perhaps she shouldn’t see it that way, but if she didn’t, she’d feel like these bastards were sabotaging her at every turn. And that ain’t happening sunshine. 

Those days in Berlin of ‘happy-go-lucky soccer-Mom Carrie’ were stuffed in a box and done with. And she feels strange about it. Like now the rose-tinted glasses have come off, the stark clarity of reality has punched her in the face. That wasn’t really her. None of it. She was trying so fucking hard to be the mother Franny deserved, to not fuck up her daughter’s life, to not be her own mother. To have the stable partner, to never be absent, to never be at risk of not coming back. Had it worked? No. It had only made things worse eventually. But the thing is, now she’s back in this world, this world that she knows unequivocally owns her, she doesn’t feel like she’s going to fuck it up. She feels like maybe she can do both. She’s had another taste of this drug and it has slowly invaded her system, crawled, fought the opposition and swam through til it reached her aching bones. I’ve got you, it whispers heavily. Fuck, she breathes erratically, operating on auto-cue, til she’s nearly heaving, nearly wailing. She pulls up the car at the nearest rest-stop and switches off the growling engine. The sun has set and the sky is a navy blue. Fireflies buzzing around her windshield. She’d been five minutes from home, and she couldn’t fucking make it. She slams her head on the steering wheel, cold and hard and rigid. She grabs the keys and launches herself out the door. Walks around the side and falls to the floor, the itchy feeling of the sharp grass penetrating her jeans, but it’s comforting. She’s alone, which isn’t. Too many thoughts, too many things to send her down a dark path. That feeling. Her brain goes into overdrive, can’t stop it, can’t stop herself travelling there. 

She snaps back from this dangerous journey suddenly, squints her eyes and slaps herself round the face. She can’t let herself stay here, in this moment; in the uncertainty, the terror, unsure of this complete regression. So much tattooed into her for the rest of her life, the agency, the people that have come and gone, Brody, fuck, Brody. How can she do this without the safety of the life she’d constructed in Berlin? Before it all went to hell, she’d reached a modicum of routine and normal-people happiness. But this would be better, she told herself firmly. She could have what she needed, what she wanted, and she would continue to fight. Fight the ever-ongoing war. Not just for her anymore. For her need to prove something. To be something. It’s for Franny now. She’s growing up in a world where there’s terrifying danger around every single corner. 

A noise penetrates her reverie and she’s suddenly back in the now. Her phone is ringing. Those five letters on the glowing screen stare at her scarily. She feels embarrassed, feels as though every single person on the earth can see her breaking down and sitting on the ground on a highway, judging and laughing at her, telling her she’s a fucking mess. A useless, pathetic woman.

“Quinn?” Her voice is deep, scratchy.

A pause. Not how he expected to hear her. 

“Carrie-…Are you okay?”

She laughs quickly, no mirth in her voice. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m just- on my way home. Stopped off.”

“Right.” He says, no note of belief in his voice. “I wanted to see if you needed to… talk, after today. You were right. Everything IS a fucking mess, and we should be doing something about it.” He hopes that’s enough.

She bites her lip. She feels in pain.

“Look I realized- I’ve been putting too much on you. It’s okay. Just do your thing Quinn. It hasn’t been very long.” She comes off sounding shorter than she’d meant to, but she doesn’t want him to see deeper. Can’t let him right now.

“Carrie don’t be ridiculous.” 

He sounds almost angry with her but she thought this was what he wanted, her to stop pulling him back in to her messed up web. 

He’s firm, resolute. “We’re going to fix this. Change things. We have to. Otherwise- it was all for nothing.” His voice drops a few octaves, and calmer he says- “What happened to me, to you, the attack. If it doesn’t mean something… why am I back here?” 

She pauses then. She knows exactly why she wanted him back here. But she can’t tell him that. She’d tried, once, and it had gotten lost in the mess of everything. She almost cries. 

“Look, I’m glad you’re here, with me. I…. need you more than anyone.” She swallows. “I just don’t want- I can’t BE that person I was before. I was a fucking manipulative bitch. I used everyone. Have you forgotten? How can you want this Quinn? ..To be around me.” She quickly clarifies. She’s revealed too much, she knows, but he’s got her at the wrong time, and it’s pouring out of her unbidden. She needs it. Needs him to listen to her. Understand how she ruins people.

Quinn’s silent for a while. 

“I’m coming over.”

“What?” Startled, her eyebrows raise in shock. 

“Let’s go for a drink.”

…..

She’s not sure how to react.

“Alright. The babysitter’s probably written me off for the night anyway.” She laughs. 

“Half an hour.”

“Ok.”

**

Somehow she makes it home then. Comes in in a whirlwind, apologises to Lucy, the babysitter, asks her to stay for the night, ‘order what you want, watch TV, use my laptop, is Franny asleep? Good. Yeah, something came up, work, I know, thanks Lucy, I appreciate it.’ 

Sorted. She runs upstairs and checks on her darling girl, she feels guilty but she needs this. What exactly, she doesn’t know. Maybe someone who understands, maybe a drink, maybe it’s him... She shrugs it all off. Whatever it is, it got her out of her descent so she’s rolling with it. 

She goes into the bedroom, switches on the lamp, smooths down her bedspread and plumps up her cushions (she has no idea why but here we are…), and goes to her wardrobe. Why does she care? Flitters through her mind, but the truth is, she cares a lot more than she’s willing to admit. She chastises herself and takes a breath. Better. But she still picks out a much nicer top than she should, cleavage too readily in view, and jeans too tight to be casual. Oh well fuck it. 

She doesn’t have to look out the window to know he’s there, she just does. Always seems to know when he’s watching her now. Like some weird fucking sixth sense. Must have been when he kidnapped her, she thinks almost nostalgically. She rolls her eyes as she sees him standing, leaning up against his car. Hands casually slid in his pockets, his hair fucking perfect, could be just-sexed, could be just out the shower, could be ‘I’ve been fighting in a war zone covered in blood all day’, it’s just always so fucking perfect tousled. He’s almost smirking it seems, but eyes dark, so not really giving anything away. 

She heads out, and as she closes the door, she suddenly feels her stomach flip flop. ‘Fucking stop it’ she pleads with her betraying body. She doesn’t want to feel nervous right now. Just wants to go for a drink and feel less out of control of everything. Wants it all to become clear. She shakes it off and walks towards him, determinedly. 

They don’t even hug. Don’t say hi. This all seems too weird for that. Too monumental. Maybe that’s just her. He seems to be functioning fine, staring at her constantly, carefully. She’s annoyed, and climbs into the passenger seat trying to avoid his gaze bearing into her.

“So where are we going? It’s a nice night out.” She breaks the silence, casually, far too casually, small talk is so obvious when she does it. 

He turns slowly, smirking again, seemingly on to her. “What’s up with you?” 

“Nothing! Jesus.” She looks around erratically, at her legs, out the window, smooths her top absently, she’s normally so in control with men. This is so beyond her. Why can’t she operate this, work him, work the situation. For fuck sake.

She takes a different tack. Gets an idea.

“Quinn.”

“Carrie.” He echoes.

“What did you think when you got my name in that box? We haven’t talked about that.”

He’s thrown. She can tell. But she needs to know. It had been so long, and there she was, invading his life again. Had he wanted her to?

His answer is almost instant, which makes her suspicious. 

“I thought, fuck. What has she gotten herself into now?” 

She rolls her eyes, “you know that’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean, Carrie?” He turns to stare at her again.

She leans back. “Had you thought about me before that?”

He’s silent.

“I mean, you just fucking left Quinn.”

“Yeah, I did. And you fucking left the CIA and went and got yourself a vanilla, white picket fence life. That didn’t take long did it?” He’s almost hostile, and it’s not how she’d thought he’d react, at all.”

“Well, tell me how you really feel, huh.”

Quinn doesn’t say anything else, they’ve arrived at a dingy little bar on a quiet street in the centre of town. He’s obviously not drinking, she thinks, he’s got his car, but… plenty of cabs around here, which is a relief for some reason doesn’t want to articulate, not even in her mind.

He parks the car, and leans back for a second, thinking about something it seems. She doesn’t want to ask what, is too afraid to now.

A second goes past and suddenly he pulls himself out of it, looks at her slowly and gives her a small curl of his lips. “Let’s go then.”

She’s part frowning in exasperation, part smiling because she still can’t help herself around him. 70% of their interactions remain fraught, a constant tennis battle, a challenge between equals, but the rest is… well… it makes her feel something absolutely terrifying, and she can’t, doesn’t WANT to identify it. 

They get out the car, the atmosphere is back, the nerves, and he walks behind, following her in. Funny, she thinks. Always the protector. 

**


	4. Swings and Roundabouts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second they leave the warm, comforting haze of the bar the cold hits her like a ton of bricks and she feels a sober rush for just a second. It does the opposite of bringing back her inhibitions and gives her a moment of clarity instead. Before she can question the urge she catches Quinn and pulls him back to her, grabbing him by the edge of his jacket. His face darkens and he waits, unsure.

This place is cute, really cute, she thinks. It’s all low ceilings and wooden beams, could be taken straight out of an English pub. Everything’s lit oh-so-gently and warm, there’s a good vibe, not too loud or claustrophobic, not offensively empty. There’s an overwhelming aroma wafting up her nose of… gravy? …And pale ale, but not sweat and piss, which is what she’s used to in these sort of places, so thank the Lord and colour her surprised at his choice.

“Not bad.” She turns to him; her gaze sweeping him up and down, with a sort of “touché” on her face. She looks a damn sight more relaxed than she did earlier too.

Good, he thinks, relieved. He just wanted to get her out of this spiral. Get her on track again for a bit. A time out. She needs it. And so does he.

He lets out a short laugh, but his face doesn’t change. “What are you having?”

“Whisky.” Perhaps she should have pretended to have to think about it, but she’s too tired to beat around the bush. Today was tiring. And she hasn’t gone back to being sober yet, not since the ‘Great-Crazy-Carrie-Relapse-Day’ in Berlin so why the fuck not. 

He doesn’t even blink. 

They find a booth which is not very good at all since it’s very much too intimate and obviously so, but neither of them really want to sit at the bar in view of everyone or on the crappy stiff wooden chairs so comfy, cozy sofa chairs it is. She doesn’t know why she should feel afraid anyway. They’re just letting off steam. Two colleagues/friends/’something’ getting it all out. Yeah right. Any minute now she’s going to stop trying to fool herself. Or not.

He just smiles. Smiles and gazes at her. Like he’s content to just sit there, looking. This is making her very very not content, so she needs to fill the silence. 

“So what’s going on since you got back, in that head of yours?” She knows he won’t give her much, but at least it gets the conversation going. 

He sighs and leans back, presses his lips together and swings his arm over the back of the seat spread wide. Too open. Holy fuck, it stirs feelings in her, but she doesn’t slip.

“I told you. The fact is, this is the shit we’re in. But we’re gonna deal with that tomorrow, all fucking day.” He looks down then back at her carefully. His eyes fixated. “I don’t want to talk about that now.”

She starts to nod but then cocks her head quizzically and a flash crosses her face.

“Well what do you want Quinn?” Note that she left out a few words of that question.

He looks down again, his mouth turns up and he seems to find that funny. 

“You know what I want. That’s never been the question here.”

She’s suddenly embarrassed, flustered. She lets out a heave that sort of turns into a laugh and takes a long, too long, swig of her whisky. It burns so good. Nothing like a cold hard taste of alcohol to hide your feelings. She tries to lighten things, fails miserably.

“Could ’a fooled me when you ran off to play soldier again.” 

“That was then.” He’s serious. Fuck. This is too much for a Monday night.

“Well we’re here. No point going over it all now. Let’s just drink and forget this shit show.” She gives him her best, ‘to hell with it’ expression, and raises her glass to clink a toast, a semi-genuine smile on her face. 

…………..

“Oh my God Quinn, no, no, no.” She’s actually laughing, a fucking gorgeous sound, her hair wild, four whiskies down, her face lit up as she proceeds to cover it with her hands. 

“I promise you it’s true. On my second tour I had to do it. Pretend to be a woman. Time was running out. I was cornered. Not many options so went to the nearest guy and got what I could to dress, practiced my best come hither look. Fucking worked too.” He’s only half joking and he guesses she knows it too, just humoring him, but hey, he’s enjoying this. 

“What about you? What’s the most… bizarre way you got out of a situation?” He’s eager to listen to her. Loves the way she tells stories, talks about life, always so apprehensive, but so expressive. Hates talking about himself and wants to bring it back to her. 

“Oh God you don’t even wanna know some of the shit I’ve done.” She’s laughing as she says it, but there’s a note of warning in her voice. The tone changes. He senses there’s quite a lot of shit he doesn’t know, but then, she could say the same. 

“Did you always know? You wanted to be in the CIA?” He leans forward ever so slightly. He’s so curious about her. About her past. About what makes her tick. As much as he thinks he’s figured her out, it’s never enough. He wants to know more. 

She shrugs and looks away. “I think I was always headed for this kind of life. I always wanted to save the fucking world. And I was always relentless. Was never going to be the one to settle down and do a 9-5. That was Maggie.” She drinks. “You know there’s so much I don’t know about you Quinn. You never want to let people in. It’s like getting blood from a fucking stone.” She’s getting bolder now. 

“It’s how I am. I watch, I listen, I react.” He shrugs, isn’t fazed by her.

“Yeah but there’s so much more to you than that.” She’s looking at him intently, willing him to hear her. “You’re incredibly resourceful, you’re a fucking great leader, hell the most talented guy in the field and the only guy I’d want around. You never give yourself enough credit.” The frustration emanates off of her. 

Jesus, he thinks. He hates hearing that shit, but somehow from her it’s different. Means something. “I’ve also done a lot of bad shit. And none of that really counteracts it does it?” It’s a rhetorical question, he wants her to get off this. 

Who is he kidding.

“No, Quinn, I won’t have it. Stop fucking putting yourself down. We’re all fucking on our way to hell, but you’ve been there and back already, it’s time you give yourself a break.” God she’s got no tact when she’s been drinking, eh. But still, she’s so intense, deadly serious, it makes him feel something, not quite toward right now.

“Stop it Carrie… I hear you. I do.” He placates her. 

She lets out a long breath. She seems to be considering something suddenly. 

“How is the pain now? Still taking your pills?”

God what is she, his fucking mother? He stares at her, his brow twitches, his expression deadly serious. “I don’t need you to look after me. That time has passed.” Yet something about the way he says it is so fucking… hot. He’s so confident all the time, so controlled. 

She doesn’t even have the courtesy to look taken aback. “I just…. I want to make sure you’re ok. You didn’t see you in the state I did, Quinn.”

“No I lived it.”

Her eyes flash up to him. Now she’s taken aback. 

“Yeah you did. Because of me.” She looks so defeated, so full of regret, he didn’t want that, time to reel it back in.

“No Carrie. Because of me getting into that situation. Because of a bunch of fucking terrorists. This wasn’t your fault. I know… you cared. You SAVED me.” He grins then, all devastatingly beautiful and frustratingly pig-headed, but fuck she can’t help herself from breaking into a smile too. Suddenly she just wants to lean over and…  
She coughs loudly, takes another large slug of whisky. Fuck we’re getting through these aren’t we, he thinks, completely amused at her I-could-give-two-fucks attitude. She’s unbelievably adorable.

He remembers. Looks at his watch. “Don’t you need to get back to Franny?” He’s surprised she’s still here with him so late.

“Oh I asked Lucy to stay. She’s done it before, the spare bedroom’s constantly made up for her.” She shrugs as if that means nothing, but yet she refuses to look him in the eye. 

Interesting.

He slides back in his seat again, watching her. 

“What?” 

“Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About getting out of here.”

She nearly chokes. Then recovers.

“Shit yeah. Better go.” But she definitely does not want to go. Her heart sinks and she feels monumentally stupid.

They get themselves together and Quinn leads the way for once. She almost wants to punch him in the face. God, why the hell does she feel so disappointed. She knows why.

The second they leave the warm, comforting haze of the bar the cold hits her like a ton of bricks and she feels a sober rush for just a second. It does the opposite of bringing back her inhibitions and gives her a moment of clarity instead. Before she can question the urge she catches Quinn and pulls him back to her, grabbing him by the edge of his jacket. His face darkens and he waits, unsure. She leans in and kisses him so hard, so full of need and longing, the desire pulsing through her veins that he’s knocked for six, can’t catch a breath and lets out a deep groan. Thank fuck, she’s wanted to do that all day. Hell, she can’t remember when she hasn’t wanted that.

He lifts his hand and caresses her hair, moves it to her face, her cheek, slides over her collarbone and down her chest. She’s shivering as her hormones are going fucking wild. He snakes his other hand around her waist and pulls her in even tighter to him. God he smells so fucking good too, such a heady mix of alcohol and deodorant and a hint of shower gel tickling his skin, and just him. The scent of his masculinity. It’s literally sex in a can to her right now and she could probably come into a pool of orgasmic delight she’s so fucking turned on. Oh get a fucking grip, she thinks. Who are you, some hysterical teenager?

His hands start to drift, dangerously entering a territory she’s not sure she’s coming back from, but she lets him, then sees out the corner of her eye there’s a kids playground in the bar back yard. That’ll do, she thinks, elated. She breaks away. A look of pure mischief plastered all over her face. 

What the hell are you thinking, he narrows his eyes at her, amused. His lips are wet, his hair mussed up and sticking on end in random directions, which almost makes her giggle out loud. 

“Come with me.” She tears off, holding his hand, nearly tearing his arm out of its socket. 

“Carrie?” He half shouts-half whispers in the night air.

As they reach the playground, she suddenly loses her nerve, notices the bench hidden in the corner under a willow tree (convenient but hey). And he’s just staring down at her, his face unreadable. 

“So…” He says, he’d laugh if he wasn’t so goddamned turned on by her right now. 

“Yeah, suddenly this doesn’t seem like such a great idea. I was in the moment.” She says it almost defensively. 

And that gets him again. He picks her up in his arms, so warm, so soft, so light, and swings her over his shoulder. She squeals. “Quinn! What the fuck! Put me down! I’m too heavy! You’re gonna fucking break your back and you’re not even healed yet”

“Carrie if you don’t fucking shut up…” He mouths as loudly as is possible as they’re dangerously close to getting caught out and after running across the other side of the tarmac slowly lowers her down onto the bench. Hmm. Hard and cold and not fucking comfortable at all.

“Didn’t think this through did we,” she stifles a laugh and nearly guffaws when he starts tickling her ribs, silencing her in the darkness again. They look at each other for a moment before he breaks it.

“There’s a tree over there.”

“I’m aware.” She snorts.

“And some cool and probably quite soft grass to lay on.”

“Yeah I think we’ve got a winner here. “

And before she knows it he’s lifting her up off the bench so deftly, and they’re moving so quickly, so quietly to under the willow tree. More hidden anyway, in case anyone did come around here at this time of night.

She’s still drunk and nearly trips over her own shoes, nearly ruins the fucking moment, but suddenly they’re there.

She sits up and leans against the trunk as he crawls towards her. She’s just looking at him, and something about this is kind of beautiful, if it wasn’t for the hard ridged bark digging into her back, those pesky fireflies flitting around again, and the somewhat damp grass underneath her. Gonna get a whole lot damper, she thinks, ruefully. They kiss slowly this time, god the feeling, this whole scenario is insane, and yet both of them are going for it hell for leather. He’s running his hands all over her, and suddenly he’s sliding his cold hand on her burning skin up inside her top. She’s sweating and he’s gonna have to peel these fucking clothes off of her, she thinks. Not exactly attractive, but does she give a shit right now? He pulls her down on top of him, shifts himself to get a better angle on the ground, and she’s sitting up, straddling him. Suddenly very aware of the situation. 

“Quinn.”

“Carrie.”

“Fuck what are we doing?”

He laughs deep in his chest, so she feels it vibrate through him for a second, and looks at her again. Every time is different to the next, always so intense, but fuck it doesn’t get easier to take. Like she’s stripped down. Completely naked. Laid bare. And likes what he sees. Except right now she’s still got a fair few clothes on.

Before she can protest again he reaches up and cuts her off with his mouth, melting with hers, sliding his tongue in so it reaches hers. Fuck she’s so good. Tastes so good. He can’t take it anymore and flips her over, practically slams her in the ground. She yelps and suddenly his mouth is travelling down, ripping and untying her clothes along the way. She’s shuffling and kicking out of her jeans dramatically, she looks like a fish out of water flapping around. He snickers but she gives him the most dirty expression so he stops. Keeps schtum. Oh Carrie. How is it that even in this moment, he fucking, LOVES her. Fuck shouldn’t have let that creep into his thoughts. She’s looking at him differently, inquisitive. He shakes it off, and more tenderly this time, now she’s de-robed, he softly trails his fingers over her soft flesh, further and further down, trailing licks and nips in his wake. She moans as he reaches her soft white, soaking wet panties and he looks up for a moment. That’s all he wants, is to see her with that expression. So wanton, laid bare, so vulnerable and completely in his care for one second in time, and yet with those sharp eyes she could fucking turn the tables and blow him to smithereens within a heartbeat. This moment. This fucking moment. She owns him.

It doesn’t take long as the desire builds, he’s suddenly inside her, they’re writhing and moving, faster and faster, everything about this, the danger of getting caught, the first time they’re having sex, being under a tree on the grass in the dead of night, the haze of alcohol like a lazy cloud lying over them, it’s all so fucking heady. They’re slick, sliding and grinding all over each other, he’s still kissing her so hard and then she’s moaning, gripping him suddenly. Feels a wave rip through her and she digs her fingernails into his arms so hard to hold him in place as she rides it. Yep, she owns him. He watches her go lax and slowly, deeper, pushes and fills her til he finds his own release. She moans, no control whatsoever, as she’s barely hanging on for dear life, and it’s all he can do not to cradle her in his arms after. Yeah, that would fucking break character, you sentimental asshole. But he can’t help it, she absolutely, irrevocably destroys him.

They’ve collapsed in a heap, so spent, but so suddenly aware of where they are and what’s happened. Carrie doesn’t want to be the first and can’t look at him.

“Fuck,” he says. So matter-of-fact.

She snorts and rolls her eyes. “Come on. Let’s get the fuck out of here!”

And in a flurry of clothes and noisy panting, they’re gone, disappeared into the night.

He’d not kissed her goodbye. At this point there was just lots of lingering looks, unspoken emotion, and he just about managed to caress her cheek, which seemed to be enough.

And that was that.

Fuck.

**


End file.
